Funeral for a Career
by FirenzeFuomo
Summary: Told through a series of time-woven scenes, Riza and Roy must fight with, and for, each other in order to take down a corrupted military official. But it is during this dangerous mission that Roy comes to a terrible, heavy, inconvenient and grave realization about his subordinate; he is in love with her.


"Have they changed that stupid rule yet?" she asked boredly, her eyes glancing down as her pen feathered across a report. It was another mundane disturbance report form; a man had been yelling at his wife about the dog coming inside; had waken the entire neighborhood. Stupid, really. Men were always yelling.

"You mean the one where women can't wear their uniform?"

"That's the one."

"Nope."

"Splendid."

"You asked that last time, too."

"Well that was five years ago, sir. I was kind of hoping there would be some hint of progression around here."

"I don't think it's such a terrible rule," he said, his voice sounding very much like there was a smirk on his face. She put her pen down and looked up at him with as much disappointment as she could muster.

"You get to show off your many award ribbons and walk around for four hours in rubber soled shoes," she refuted. "I do not. You get to just pull something you already own out of your closet. I do not."

"Are you telling me you don't own a dress, Lieutenant?" he asked with half a smile and a raised eyebrow. She replicated the look challengingly.

"When would I ever need to wear a dress, Colonel?"

"Uh, how about the last military ball?"

"Again, the one that was five years ago? That military ball, sir?"

She heard a snort come from her right.

"Hawkeye's gettin' quippy," said the whispering voice of Havoc. She whipped her head around to glare at him, and he quickly shoved his face down into his own packet of paperwork, suddenly extremely focused.

"Well sure," said Mustang kind of dumbly, no longer teasing her, "just wear that one."

"Sir," she looked back at him. "I don't even have that dress anymore. I don't even remember what it looked like."

"It was violet, it had chic little strings dangling off the bottom."

"Did you just say 'chic'?" asked Havoc with an amused disbelief.

"If you're not man enough to say the word 'chic', Havoc, you're never going to get a girlfriend."

" _Ooo, damn,_ " Breda whistled with a laugh. Havoc rolled his eyes and threw a pen at him.

"Hmm…" Hawkeye wondered distractedly. She'd forgotten about the dress, as her ever-filled brain, in its constant need to stay present, had deleted its memory. "I do remember now. I'm quite certain I let that sit in my closet for about two months before donating it somewhere."

She eyed him as his face fell and he gave a little shrug.

"And," she added to further her point, "there wasn't a single time after that that I ever needed it again."

* * *

"You're sure about this?" he asked her, something strange floating in his chest.

For the first time in some time, he felt hesitance. A hesitance, a fear, he realized, a fear that tasted strange on the back of his tongue. The feeling scratched the walls of his gut, unwelcome and uncomfortable. He realized he did not understand this trepidation, that it was new and slim and flat yet full; he began to question it, but the answer came to him in an image, the image of her in that incredibly simple and stunning navy blue dress, the neck high and the hem tickling the floor, splashed with red and collapsing.

Of course he'd always felt a degree of concern over his team, that had always been so. He cared for them, what of it? It was a natural protection people felt for the ones they were fond of.

But they were soldiers as he was, and when a job needed done, they did it. They couldn't quiver and back out like a civilian could do, no, of course not; they took an oath to protect the country and its people. An oath sworn on paper by the government, but also an oath sewn in their own flesh that stood more prominently than the one prior. Backing out of anything was quite frankly unfathomable. It wasn't in their DNA, and it was not ever considered.

But this here, this now, was a primal instinct of desperation that was currently being forcefully pushed down to the bottom of his stomach. It felt rash and wild. Like it was wriggling around, an unconventional creature trying to claw out of his throat to audibly tell her, specifically her, to turn around.

She was tucked strongly into the wall across from him, her knees bent and braced in confidence. The gun was held firm in her entirely capable hands, her eyes were hard and unwavering. She appeared as strong as she always was, confident in her abilities and a determination held by few. It wasn't a fear that they couldn't handle whatever lay ahead of them; frankly he ought to fear for whomever would find their way on the opposing side of her weapon. But he did not. He feared for her. The simple fear that this was dangerous, and he did not want her to be apart of it.

Of course, she had to be apart of it. She was apart of everything; he was stabilized by her involvement, and depended on her greatly. There was a vitalization to her that he required to perform any given duty. On paper and in the office they were officer and subordinate, but their woven paths secreted something deeper than that. They were partners.

So what was happening, suddenly? Why was he randomly gripped by this somewhat ridiculous notion that she would find harm's way? Quite frankly, he thought once more, she _was_ harm's way.

But he could not force the redirection of his fear, and his fear remained glued to her.

Braced up against the corner like that, the corridor they hid within covered in shadow, her eyes peeking around the corner and her hands lifting the gun in response...her shoulders bare from the modest and strikingly effortless dress ribboning off of her…the wrinkles it made atop of her kneeling leg...the image of her like it was the most beautiful song he'd ever heard and it existed for him in physical form;

His body locked up, his lips parted in absolute shock, and something akin to the lock of a door clicking into its silver capsule occurred inside him. A deep heaviness pushed down on his heart. He felt as though he'd been hit by a truck, a truck so swift and silent he had no prior inclination of the impact.

He had to resist the impulse to put his hand over his chest at the shock, at the revelation, of it, for it struck him suddenly and without a doubt of clarity.

A deep grief burrowed within him as the words materialized across the matter of his mind.

You're in love with her.

 _Oh, dammit…_ he thought to himself, leaning back an inch. _Oh…_

Time seemed to slow down, just barely, as he continued watching her. How could this have happened? He couldn't pull his eyes away. It was as though the revelation of the emotion only served to solidify it completely, until it was not just the weightless knowledge drifting through his mind like a gas but instead an existing being of matter, real and touchable and so distinctly visible it made him spin.

A strand of hair fell down from the top of her hair to slowly descend into her face. She barely flicked her head to the side, the movement seeming to take several seconds, to toss it back in place. The light of the hallway before them caught her small earrings and they glistened dully.

Everything about her, the strength of her hands and how they seemed to define her in power, the way she spoke and the words she used, how she always shook her packets of sugar before pouring them into her coffee…

Yes, he confirmed terribly _._ He was in love with her.

"The call is yours to make, sir…" she repeated, a somewhat worried look in her eye. She had turned her head to look at him. "Colonel, are you alright? Are you listening?"

Time caught up with itself and he realized she'd been looking at him for some time. Looking back at her was different than it ever had been before. He barely straightened his neck.

"Yes. Yes, I'm listening."

"Alright…" She didn't appear entirely convinced. "Well like I said, sir, I strongly think we need to act now. If you think otherwise, I'll follow you. But it's yours to decide."

 _You're in love with her…._

If she were Havoc, he'd order they continue forward and do what was necessary, for the greater good. If she were Havoc, things would much more easily objective, because Roy cared greatly about Jean Havoc but those emotions could be switched off in time of battle.

But he wanted to say they ought to turn back, because she wasn't Jean Havoc. She was Riza Hawkeye. And Roy Mustang did not want Riza Hawkeye to go past that wall, and he could not switch that thought off.

His respect for her outlived his love for her. It had been there since the day she opened that door, years and years ago. To deny her this duty, _her_ duty, because of his own feelings, was to deny her the respect she deserved.

"Well at the risk of sounding too unlike myself," he said through a dry mouth, conjuring up a light voice to defy his turmoil, "I do think you're right, Hawkeye. I think we need to find those files. You said it yourself, we're never gonna get the chance that we have now. So, uh..." He sighed internally. "So let's do it."

* * *

 _For some reason, he felt a little nervous, leaning up against his car as he waited. The hell are you nervous for? he asked himself genuinely. It wasn't like he hadn't been to a ball, before. And no, he didn't particularly love being in his dress uniforms, but it wasn't like it was that uncomfortable._

 _He saw the sliver of light appear atop her building's door, growing wider as she stepped out, barely illuminating the top of her head. The night's air seemed unclear, and he wasn't able to see her well enough besides the telltale blonde hair stark against the building. The triangle of light depleted as the door was shut, and he heard the soft crunching of snow beneath her feet as she walked over to him._

 _As she came nearer to both he and the street lamp, he felt his thorax tighten curiously._

 _The word 'beautiful' came to his mind without his consent. It drifted across the back layer of his brain so that he barely noticed it._

 _She was in a simple dark blue dress. It had a high neck, as he knew it would, but as many high neck dresses were of Xingese style this was not. There were no frills or designs or layers, or anything definitive as 'fancy' about it. it was simply a dark blue dress, almost the color of the deep part of the ocean, and the only distinct thing about it was that it cut off at the crest of her shoulders, baring the entirety of her arms, and it was made of some kind of soft fabric that draped off her easily._

 _There was a sparkling thing hanging around her wrist. He'd never seen her wear jewelry before, besides her humble earrings, which she wore tonight as well. They grounded her easily. Though she looked remarkably different than she would on an average day, she still looked like Riza Hawkeye, her eyes familiar and her earrings just as so._

 _He wondered if she wore the same ones on purpose. Perhaps she, too, felt out of place in the unusual attire. Perhaps she wanted some kind of stake to help her feel more comfortable, more like herself;_

 _The look, regardless, suited her naturally._

 _She was practically glowing off the barren snow._

" _Evening, Colonel," she said pleasantly. He smiled as he opened the passenger door._

" _Evening, Lieutenant," he replied. "You look very nice tonight."_

" _Thank you, sir, you seem at least presentable yourself."_

" _When am I never_ not _presentable? I look dynamite all of the time."_

" _I was half concerned you'd show up with a wrinkly dress uniform. You never iron, you know. I can tell." She smirked as she stepped into the car._

" _Ignoring the fact that that sounded incredibly judgemental, ironing is a stupid habit. I almost convinced myself not to participate in such a practice for this mandatory occasion I had no choice in attending."_

" _Try not to be so obviously bitter when we show up, sir." He began to roll his eyes and shut her door, but she pushed the heel of her hand into the metal to stop him. He looked down at her with a mild expression of surprise._

" _Military balls are only mandatory for rank Lieutenant Colonel and above, sir, so it's just another indicator that you're climbing the ladder. Next time try and rejoice when you have to pull the iron out."_

 _He snorted and closed her door successfully this time, shaking his head as he rounded the front of the vehicle. The night was very cold, but indeed rather refreshing. He tugged down at the bottom of his dress jacket before opening his own door and settling in beside her._

" _And there you were," he quipped as he turned the engine, "trying to tell me that women had it harder because you had to go out and buy a dress. Well you didn't have to iron it, did you, Lieutenant?"_

 _The closing of the doors mute out all noises of the outside. She laughed and he felt his ears perk at the sound._

" _No," she said. "No I did not have to iron this dress."_

* * *

" _Whattya think?" he asked softly, his head near her ear as they swiveled around. Her hand fit comfortably in his own._

" _Security is hardly even noticeable," she answered back through a murmur. Her voice tickled his neck. "In fact, you know what, first thing Monday I'm going to bring it up to the board because this is just absurd-"_

" _You realize the lack of security benefits us at this moment, right, Hawkeye?"_

 _They pivoted again, her feet gliding between his easily as they did so. They drifted a touch near another couple, and his hand on her hip tightened enough to pull her away. They stepped back to their open space, the music loud from the orchestra billowing up front._

" _Yes, I'm aware, thank you, sir." He had to smile at her sarcastic tone. "But imagine if this were the Fuhrer's house and we were a couple of extremists looking to attack sensitive information. Who was assigned as chief of security, anyway? Was it Hogtime? I'm going to have a talk with him about this. Honestly, it's almost juvenile."_

" _Lieutenant," he reminded quietly, his smile still curved slightly upwards. He felt her ribcage expand with a small sigh._

" _Well, sir," she said. "With this pathetic attempt at security, I'd say we're never going to have a better chance than now. We've been suspecting Kingston for some time, and what he just said not twenty minutes ago…"_

" _Yeah, I'm still not convinced I won't just burn this complex down and call it a day."_

" _Ha ha, Colonel," she retorted dryly. "It's hardly the first time a man has said something like that to me, or to any woman for that matter. It comes with the job."_

" _What's that supposed to mean? Being harassed comes with being a soldier?"_

" _Oh, no, Colonel," she said with surprise. She looked up at him and their eyes met. "With being a woman."_

 _His eyes glanced between hers a few times, her face only a few inches down from his own. He suddenly felt a wave of empathy trickle down his spine, despite knowing that's not what she sought with the comment. As though seeing it in his face, she looked over his shoulder again as they continued to dance._

" _Anyway, we need to prove what he's up to. If we could just find a file, a receipt, a piece of paper for all I care...I know he's involved with something seedy, and I'll be damned if we don't find out what."_

" _Any clue on how we'll bring it to the brass without telling them that we snuck around his business' complex? The invitation made it pretty clear that we were to stay where the party was."_

 _He glanced down at her. She was surveying the scene as they twisted around gracefully, chewing on the bottom of her lip. She shook her head._

" _Unclear. However, step one is proving it to ourselves, so I suggest we tackle that hurdle when we come to it."_

" _Right so, Lieutenant."_

 _The music finally stopped, the violins swiftly stroking out the last note until those dancing smiled at their partners and looked around gaily. Only seconds passed before a fresh note dotted the room, and the dancing commenced again. By this time, Mustang and Hawkeye had already slipped out from the crowd._

 _They made their way to a wall on the far side of the room, where only a couple of wallflowers and a few (grossly) intimate players observed from the side. Mustang leaned nonchalantly against the wall and Hawkeye did the same, facing one another. There was a door a few feet behind them._

" _Oh, what a lovely night this turned out to be," said Mustang casually as he reached into his pocket. Hawkeye lifted an eyebrow at his lame attempt of a game._

" _Just so supreme," replicated Hawkeye, her voice mocking._

" _The punch was a little sour." His hand retreated from his pocket and was brought to the wall, though he was not looking at it. It was as though it were acting on its own. He pursed his lips at Hawkeye in feigned disappointment, and she returned the pout._

" _Can't have sour punch," she sympathized._

" _No," agreed Mustang. "No you can't. What fun is a party if the punch lacks?"_

" _Makes it seem like the rest of the punch in the world will always be sour if you don't find a way to sweeten it."_

 _His hand moved carefully, expertly, in a sort of design with the hand he was effectively ignoring. He felt the chalk in his fingers bounce against the texture of the wall. He chuckled once and dropped the act he'd initiated._

" _You were always one for symbolism, Hawkeye."_

" _Likely because I enjoy the habit of reading."_

" _That sounded judgmental again. Are you judging me?"_

" _I'm not sure."_

" _Seems like it."_

 _He smiled at her as he tucked the chalk into his palm and the tips of two fingers and his thumb pressed against the transmutation circle._

" _Well, sir, if the shoe fits…"_

 _The entire room went black. There were the sounds of concerned exclamations, the halting of the piano and violins, and the very soft click of a door being shut._

 _The voices became muffled as they distanced themselves from the door. They heard Kingston's voice through the wall, assuring everyone that it was simply an electric malfunction and that he just needed to find his way to an outlet to fix it. He made a joke about staging the blackout to show off his reputable alchemic talent. The crowd laughed._

" _What a tool…" murmured Mustang._

" _Says the man who basically said the same thing to a waitress when she dropped the pitcher."_

" _Damn you and that memory of yours."_

" _Colonel, I can't see a thing."_

" _Oh, right, sorry." He fumbled around his jacket for a moment until he slipped them on, then snapped his fingers so a small ball of fire levitated above his middle finger and thumb. The light bounced off the walls and hit the prominent features of their faces. It flickered curiously, causing the shadows on his lieutenant's face to glimmer and dance. Her golden hair was loose tonight, dangling naturally just below the line of her shoulders. Mustang felt the light of a small match in his stomach._

 _He imagined Kingston and Hawkeye as she would later recall to him; he approaching her like a greasy and shady fool, too common an occurrence that it no longer could strike the man as inappropriate, thinking he was made of Power and suave, and attempting to, what, seduce her? What an old putse. Foregoing the fact that he was truly the least enchanting thing in that room, but Kingston had not only mistaken Hawkeye as an arbitrary blonde woman who'd wandered into the party on the arm of a uniform, but had shifted his attention to a woman who would indeed be the cause of his utter demise._

 _He'd put his beady little target eyes on the most capable woman on the planet, who had three times the brains as he. Stupid tipsy bastard thought his illegal misgivings would tempt the temptress, HA! Laughable. If only Roy could see the man's face when he realized he'd been put in prison because of that very same woman._

 _From the moment Roy first even met the man, he knew the two of them were wholly incompatible. Roy had extended his hand and introduced himself, a young and ambitious major, and Kingston had taken it limply. His eyes were elsewhere, somewhere behind Roy's head, and had barely even looked him in the eye._

 _As the years passed, Mustang and his lieutenant noticed a bond form between a man named Simon Hanley and Kingston. Hanley was practically confirmed to be dirty when he nearly assaulted Hawkeye for grabbing a folder off his desk a few years back - Hanley was practically confirmed lucky Mustang didn't blaze his arm off._

 _Then Kingston began visiting Hanley often when Mustang, Hawkeye, and Hanley were stationed in Easy City, even though Kingston himself worked in Central. They'd exchange files and leave the building together. Kingston would shake his hand firmly and exchange eye contact as they spoke._

 _Hanley was a lower rank, yet Kingston greeted him as an equal. He'd bring in coffee for him._

 _Generals don't bring coffee for majors._

 _Then Mustang and his team had been assigned a case one day. Munitions of the armed military had been disappearing not only habitually, but severely. Impressive gaps littered the supply notices, and as such a thing was discovered, it soon became obvious that it had been occurring for some time._

 _Either there was a very adept thief, or a very corrupted officer. And Mustang had decided which he thought it to be._

 _Yet never had Kingston made a slip. Never had a trail, a clue, or a mistake been left behind to be found by Mustang to lead him without a shadow of a doubt to Kingston and Hanley's guilt. The two of them were fortresses, not once allowing their steel facade to crack least a pest see through it…_

 _That was, until now. Until Kingston decided to approach the one women in the room of a military ball he shouldn't have._

* * *

" _Colonel, you should probably go greet the Fuhrer. He'll probably only stay for another twenty minutes."_

" _Ugh, but that means schmoozing. You know how I feel about schmoozing."_

" _Don't kid yourself. You love it."_

" _I'm also pretty good at it."_

 _He was probably fishing for a smile, but she kept her face impassive. She barely tilted her head down in disappointment._

" _Colonel. You're going to miss your window."_

" _Well what's the point in roping you into coming to this stupid thing with me if you won't come bear half of my agony?"_

" _Because firstly, I do actually hate schmoozing. And secondly, you need to make an impression, not me. This entire night would be meaningless if you didn't at least grab at the chance to chat with the Fuhrer without being required to keep conversation on your professions."_

 _That, she thought, was the truest thing of the night. Dressing up could be argued as pleasurable, particularly when all one normally wore was a baggy uniform for months at a time, but she truly did not enjoy military balls. She hadn't wanted to come at all, but knew that if Mustang was required to go by the higher brass, she would be required to go by Mustang._

 _If he was insistent on her accompanying him, she would be insistent on him doing some work, work which involved chatting up the Fuhrer._

" _Oh, fine." He sighed dramatically and thrust his head upwards to stare at the ceiling. "I'll be back soon."_

 _She watched as he parted his way through the crowd, his sights on the Fuhrer up front who was chatting with his mousy and frankly adorable wife._

 _Hawkeye knew she couldn't watch him meticulously the entire time, judging his gestures and gauging his movements to determine whether or not he was making an impression. She took to watching the crowd instead._

" _Mustang's new muse, I take it?" asked a low voice. It was strange, the way his voice made her think of smog and musk. Her spine stiffened. She knew who it was before even looking up at him, which she then did following the revelation._

 _She stared at the older face of General Kingston._

 _He was at least six feet tall, and his frame was hardly more than soft in his slightly older age. One of his eyelids drooped just barely to give one the thought of clay. He was bearing the half smile of a man who thought he was_ above _, who thought he was_ someone _...he bore the look of a man who thought of himself as only a man. He faintly smelled of alcohol._

 _She hardly let half a second go by before responding to his lackluster introduction. In that time, she realized that Kingston did not recognize her, and that he was attempting to flirt with her despite thinking she was the date of Roy Mustang._

 _If she required Mustang to do some work tonight, she would do some too._

" _Well, we only met last week," she said in a voice unlike her own. It was a pitch higher and a shade softer, as though meek. In her dealings with men like Kingston, she knew they preferred an unsure woman. Someone who necessitated on being told what to do. Something in his slightly scarred face brightened, and she knew she was correct._

 _Because for some unbeknown reason, she suddenly had the immense desire to claw through his secrets which she_ knew _he had. The Colonel and she were less than displeased to discover the avenue of the military ball would be at Kingston's business estate, but they assumed it would just be an unfortunate piece of the night. The thought of picking at his secrets hadn't occurred to them, because how could they?_

 _And then here he stood, above her as though he felt it were his place, practically handing her the picket to dig._

" _Is that so?" he practically purred through a low growl. Riza felt something scorch in the bottom of her stomach. "He seems to have a new arm sweet every few weeks. Stupid man doesn't really seem to know what he's got when he's got it."_

 _She laughed shyly and looked away._

" _I suppose many men don't."_

" _Oh, I do…" he said staring, almost glaring, down at her. "I'm gonna be honest here because I'm an honest man. You are…"_

 _His eyes traversed from her feet, hungrily up to her hips and curves, and finally to her face._

" _You're exquisite. And I'm a man of power, Miss...Miss…?"_

" _Olivia Arrigo…"_

 _She had no clue of where that name had come from._

" _Ah, Miss Olivia...Olivia, I'm a man of power, you understand...I'm a high ranking officer, as well as, well, I'm a businessman, you understand."_

" _Oh?" She released a breath of laughter, soft and airy. "What line of business are you in, Mister Military?"_

" _Well, for starters, this military ball you've been invited, and abandoned, in, is in my complex. I own this lot." She then realized he studied her as he awaited her impressment, and she quickly shot her eyebrows up in faux surprise and interest, and seeming pleased with her reaction he continued. "And publicly," he emphasized, "I run a company that invests and complies with law and military forces...but, uh,"_

 _His hand left his side to slide behind her back, brushing across her spine._

" _Not publicly, and in fact in this very building...I'm a much more powerful man…"_

 _Riza's heart practically blew out from her chest. What had he just said? Did she hear right?_

 _Was this close enough to an admission?_

" _So mysterious…" she breathed. "Can't you tell me any more? Now you've just got me so interested…" She lifted her shoulder in a sort of shrug. "It's not fair to leave a girl hanging…"_

 _He chuckled and brushed his thumb across the lower half of her back, drifting a tad low enough for her to consciously stop herself for reaching for her gun._

" _If I told you…" he began as his mouth leaned towards her ear. His voice lowered into a deep and low whisper. She felt her body harden and her muscles flex in terrible apprehension as his breath puffed against her skin._

" _...I'd have to kill you."_

* * *

The hallway appeared as any other office hallway. The carpet was blue and grey and boring, and the walls were decorated with corkboards and framed certificates. There was a door on each side of the hallway every several feet. The after-hour lights were dim above them.

Back a few sectors, when he and Hawkeye first snuck out from the ballroom and were formulating a plan in the dark, things had been quiet. They checked rooms, they shuffled their way down one hallway after another, and they had made no progress. Nothing was to be found.

Then: voices.

Their backs hit the wall swiftly and silently, flattening themselves beside one another as they listened. They were unfamiliar voices, all male, conversing in a room several doors down. From the clarity of their voices, Mustang knew the door was open. He looked over to his lieutenant, who mouthed the words _'it could be nothing'_ to him. He nodded his reassurance to her. _I won't do anything rash just yet, Lieutenant._ He strained his ears to assess their conversation.

Despite the lieutenant's warning, the voices, two men it had seemed, quite soon confirmed to Mustang that this wasn't nothing at all.

"He's out there high and mighty, drinking free champagne and dancin' his ass off. Hope he's havin' fun, the prick."

"He told me he wants to take off a layer of the cream of the crop tonight. Target a couple higher ups. Sweet talk 'em, you know."

The first man exhaled heavily.

"Goddamn it, I've been saying for months that who we got is fine. We don't need anymore investors or whatever, we can't fuckin' trust any of them. What if he tries to sweet talk the wrong person, huh? What if he goes up to someone like Mustang or that Armstrong puss and says flat out that he's been dealin' military arms out to-?"

" _Shhh!_ The hell, man? Your loose mouth is almost as bad as his."

Mustang quickly exchanged an identical look with Hawkeye, eyes wide and jaws dropped in identical shock. They're were close enough against the wall that their shoulders touched, and he quickly saw a smile begin to rise in her eyes. _We've got him..._

"He hates Mustang, Danny," the man continued. "Why would he ever pursue him?"

"I'm just sayin'."

"Well say smarter things, you idiot. The second he'd pair up with Mustang is the second he'd put a bullet in his brain."

"Don't fix what ain't broken, man, that's what I'm tryin' to say. We don't need nobody else in on this, we're walkin' a real tight fuckin' rope as it is and I ain't tryin'a put my ass on the line if he fucks up."

"He's been doin' this for ages. He knows what he's doing."

"Whatever." They hear the man scoff. "What time is it, anyway?"

"'Bout ten."

"Well we're supposed to let Simon in through the back, so let's get over there before he blows a gasket again."

" _That_ I agree with."

Mustang and Hawkeye managed to push themselves further into the wall as they heard a pair of feet hit the ground, as though one of them had leapt off a chair or a desk, and then there were the sound of heavy footsteps in the carpeted hallway. Mustang perked his ears, tilting his head just enough to listen more effectively. He was suddenly gripped with the idea that those footsteps may be coming towards them, but their thuds grew quiet and were then gone altogether.

"He's dealing to _who?_ " breathed Hawkeye, her head peeking around the corner to ensure the hallway was indeed empty. "The Drachma? The rebels?"

"Worm." Mustang felt a familiar prick at the walls of his chest. With each discovery of a corrupted officer came the further plummet of his faith in the people he worked for; to know that men like Kingston roamed freely, richly, parading around in the same uniform worn by Mustang himself while they played in the dirt behind closed doors, infuriated him completely.

He then noticed the form of Hawkeye was no longer tucked into the wall, but already halfway down the hall, her gun facing forward as she crouched skillfully down the way. Mustang quickly caught up to her, and after some time, they found themselves at the base of the next hallway.

And there they were. The hallway they were crouched in was perpendicular to the one they sought, the one they assumed the goons were residing in somewhere. That hallway did not have the after-hour lights on, but rather all switches flipped so the light was bright and dazzling compared to the dimness they were currently beneath.

Just barely, several yards down the brightly lit hallway, they could hear voices again. Voices behind a closed door.

Voices, if Mustang was being honest to himself, he absolutely did not expect to encounter when he and Hawkeye decided to investigate the building. He did not expect either of them to be in a fight this night, he did not prepare himself for both the absolute excavation of knowledge regarding both Hanley and Kingston's guilt, nor the fact that within grasp of the evidence was the voices of men likely going to be displeased with he and Hawkeye's interference.

He had his gloves, yes, he always did, and she had her gun, yes, she always did, but they were only two. In that room down the hall, in the least, were three: the two voices from before, and Simon Hanley that they'd likely just let in.

Desperate men do desperate things, and Simon Hanley had a habit of becoming desperate when threat to his illegal dealings were involved.

Hawkeye was snug against the wall across from him, her cheek parallel with the paneling. She was peeking around the corner.

Mustang, across from her, became suddenly aware of her. Aware in a strange way, a way that he didn't entirely recognize…

"You're sure about this?" he found himself saying. She turned her head to look at him, somewhat surprised. He objectively, distantly, recognized that he felt something akin to hesitance, or even fear.

He was confused by this until he reached that one terrible, heavy, distracting, inconvenient conclusion;

 _You're in love with her._

But they continued on regardless, ending in her asking him to make a choice and him doing so. They were going to end this tonight, and by morning Central would be out a general.

Before stepping into the lit hallway, Mustang looked to Hawkeye questionably as she brought her hands to her feet and began tugging at her shoes. Her gun was still tight in one hand as she maneuvered both heels off, and she held them up in the other and looked at Mustang. He felt the ghost of a smile cross his face, and as quietly as he could, he snapped. The shoes turned to thin, breezy ash that drifted onto the floor. When she crouched, her toes were hardly visible at all, blanketed beneath the navy blue fabric. He knew they were entirely silent without waiting for her to take a single step.

And then she did, she took a step into the hallway, her way of signaling to him that she would take the lead. He said nothing and followed behind her. For a reason he would never really understand, he glanced at her shoulder blades, studying where sleevelessness began and ended. His eyes flicked between the skin of her shoulders and the fabric of the dress.

The tattoo was entirely covered and he felt a sliver of relief.

They crept down the hallway, their bodies running along the starboard wall, until Hawkeye stopped short at the last door. She looked over her shoulder at him and they shared a glance. He nodded at her, and she did the same.

Gracefully, she stood from her crouching position to her full height, the gun raised and poised, the skin of the soldier zipping over flesh, and she brought the strength of her foot up to kick open the door wide open.

Mustang's heart dropped to the bottom of his feet.

It were almost like a film; her framed by the arch of the doorway, the light of the room before her bouncing off her hair and past her limbs. The noise of the door being forced open seemed to pierce the air for several long moments, though its slap was indeed succinct, and the surprise was shared by all, staring, frozen, staring.

Seven very alarmed heads whipped around to look at the forced door, their sitting and before relaxed bodies seeming to be in a sort of lab, and every single one reached for their own gun attached to their hips.

 _Bang bang click click,_

Her gun rang out before any of theirs, firing the shots as she dropped to kneel, avoiding any bullets that were locked onto her figure. Blocking the entryway completely, she shoved her elbow backwards into Mustang's shoulder, forcing him back as she too retreated. They clambered to either side of the doorway, Hawkeye on the left side and Mustang on the right. They looked at each other very briefly.

Adrenaline was soaring through Mustang. There were _seven_ of them in there, _seven dammit!_

Bullets hit the wall opposite them. The men's voices were shouting, at one another or at them, Mustang wasn't certain.

He was, however, certain that they both stood a very good chance of being killed in the line of duty tonight.

Hawkeye whipped around expertly, bravely pointing her gun back into the room before firing another round of shots and shoving her back into the wall again. The clip in her gun fell to the floor and she pulled something off her calf, then replaced the clip with the full one in her hand.

"I think I've gotten at least three," she heaved. A few beads of perspiration gathered around her temples. His surge of adrenaline seemed to be shared.

 _Hawkeye, we need to book it._

 _We can't take them all, we must retreat._

 _Run._

"We can't run the risk of them finding their way back to the ballroom," he yelled over the sounds of chaos within. "There are civilians in there." He hated what he was saying. "We have to fight."

"I know, sir," she replied as another bullet whizzed by between them to _thonk_ into the wall. "We'll take care of this."

She pivoted again to fire into the room. Roy saw the shadow only milliseconds before the man materialized, his shoulders filling the doorframe and his face turned in primal fury. The man seemed to only notice Hawkeye, and he lunged for her, wrapping his hands around her gun and forcing her upwards. The gun fired into the ceiling with a _bang_. The noise was very quickly followed by a _snap_ , and the man fell to ground, smoking.

A few strands of hair out of place, Hawkeye tilted her head at Roy.

"Thanks."

"That's four down."

The thought that they could stand a chance prodded him.

"Any chance you can't light the whole room up?"

He could see in her face that as she said it, she realized the answer. They said it at the same time.

"Evidence."

She sighed and forced her back into the wall once more, the balls of her feet strong beneath her. The hem of the dress spilled around her like water turned to cloth.

Oh, how he suddenly desired to not be there.

Dust from the wall across them drifted downwards. The bullet holes echoed silently.

They could be dancing, he knew. The piano would play, he'd hold her, feel the rough texture of her fingers drift across his own; the strange feeling in his stomach wouldn't be that of dread, as it was now.

They could be dancing.

 _Colonel, must you require me to attend with you? I'm certain you are capable of handling it yourself._

 _Come on, Lieutenant. It'll be fun._

 _Will it?_

 _Not with that attitude._

 _Alright, sir. Just make sure you iron your dress uniform._

His head turned and their eyes met, and she gave him a small, reassuring smile. A little shrug of her shoulders.

He nodded back at her and returned the upturned look. Yes, you're right, he thought. We did, after all, choose this.

The bottle made a loud sound as it knocked off the wall to land clumsily between them, and the small explosion that followed sounded one hundred times louder.

His shoulder fell into the ground, hard, as he was blasted away. He felt pieces of glass in his face, and the hand that lifted to brush them away came back with blood on it. His head jerked up to look in her direction.

" _Lieutenant!"_ he screamed, his voice scratching against his throat. There was a wall of smoke between them, and he felt panic rise in his throat. Was she closer to the blast than he?

"Colonel!" came a strong voice. "Are you alright?"

"Yes!" His voice rode on a wave of relief.

Voices rose again in the room, voices shouting, angered that the blast didn't do the damage they had wished.

" _Kill them!"_ Someone ordered manically, desperately. It was Hanley. Mustang could recognize his voice if it were even just a whisper. The fragile thread of the man's career, of the threat currently posed to him and his future, hung in his order.

Roy scrambled to his feet and charged straight through the smoke, pivoting his foot to turn into the lab before they had the chance to do anything else, before the man's desperation could destroy he or even worse she -

He collided with another body. Her hair tickled his face.

He could almost laugh, if he wasn't so disappointed. Of course she would attempt to do the same…

But then something hard hit his shin, and through the thinning smoke, he looked down to discover another glass bottle sloshed with liquid and stuffed tight with a rag. There was a blaze of fire at the tip of the cloth.

Hands pushed on the back of his shoulders and he was shoved forward into the lab. An arm encapsulated his back and threw him to the ground. He felt the tile beneath his hands shake violently with the blast. The weight on his body lifted and was replaced with air.

"Hands in the air!" she yelled. Mustang flipped himself over to lean back on his elbows, and he saw her kneeling at his feet. Her gun was raised.

"Hands in the air, all of you, don't move!"

They must have been surrounded, because her gun was switching directions every half second, and with dread he realized that control did not belong to them.

Chaos overtook them only a moment after.

Through the haze of smoke drifting inwards, he only saw the shadow before it tackled her to the ground. Mustang threw himself to his feet, but a fist landed squarely on his jaw before he could even take a step towards her. He swung his arm up wildly, hoping to make contact with whomever was near, but he was only rewarded with another punch to his gut. He made a kind of grunting noise as the air left him and one of his knees hit the tile.

There was another shadow, that of an arm coming down upon him, and he leapt backwards just in time for the man to punch through air and stagger at lack of contact. The man's head jerked upwards angrily.

He lunged.

Roy Mustang could take a punch, he could throw one even. Roy Mustang could hold his own better than most, and he knew how to fight.

But he was not a fighter. He was an alchemist. His teacher, a brilliant and saturated mind, had not once brought him to a field to show him the formulas of the martial arts. He'd never trained with a sparring partner, and he was rarely in a position where he had to rely on his fists rather than his gloves. Even now when he was finally able to use his alchemy, being in a more controlled and visual situation than he was before, he barely had the time to dodge the attacks coming at him.

The man impaled him with all his strength and Roy felt his back collide with the floor at the same time a gunshot rang through the air.

He thrust his palm upwards towards the incoming man's face, the heel of his hand smashing into the attacker's nose, and he felt the bone crack. The attacker cried out, raised his own hand, and brought his strength down to smack Roy in the space between his eyes. His head whipped backwards into the tile. Another gunshot. Panic was wrapping around Mustang's brain, trying to force him to forget his own fight to look for her, but he ignored the desire, or perhaps he simply couldn't heed it through the buzzing between his ears.

The haze of the smoke was suddenly joined by the haze of his head. He heard Hanley shout something but he could not decipher what.

The man raised his hand again, but Roy deflected the incoming punch with his forearm as he brought his other hand up to catch the man in the temple. It shocked him enough for Roy to bring another punch to the same spot and he shoved him off onto the floor, standing so quickly to his feet he felt the tickle of lightheadedness.

His foot thrust into the man's head, directly in the same spot, on the same temple, and as the man's head bounced to the side Roy knew he wasn't going to wake any time soon.

Shoulders raised, breath heavy, sweat rolling down his neck, Roy looked up for the next man to fight.

Only one man remained, and he was on the receiving end of Hawkeye's gun. She pulled the trigger, but the magazine _clicked_ and did nothing more.

She swung it to the side like a mallet, towards Hanley's head, but the man ducked and threw himself against a counter across from them. At first it seemed like he'd done so in desperation to simply escape Hawkeye's trajectory, but with a glance, Roy saw too late what Hanley was actually leaping for and he dashed to them both -

But Hanley grasped the object wildly, his eyes huge and his arms clearly shaking as he turned around just as Hawkeye swung for him again. The butt of her pistol whipped into his jaw at the same time that his hand slammed down towards her, and he staggered, but he'd already done what he set out to do.

Roy called out her rank but she ignored him. The pistol in her hand whacked against Hanley's head once more, ignoring what he'd done, and the man shivered and dropped to his hands and knees.

The effects took her swiftly as she stumbled backwards, the gun in her hand clattering to the floor. Her unbalanced fingers, now trembling, raised to grasp the syringe sticking out of the crook of her elbow. By her will, she yanked it out and raised the needle shakily to her eyes to attempt to read its label.

The object was hardly up long enough for her to read it before it, too, fell noisily to the tile. She shivered and gasped quietly, stumbling backwards again until the lower part of her spine hit the counter. A little ball of blood seeped out from the small hole in her skin.

Roy found himself grabbing her by the shoulders.

"I-I'm alright," she said to him. "I'm alright."

Roy distantly heard a rustle behind him, the sound of a man attempting to whimper away, climbing over bodies and knocking clumsily into a cabinet, and without a thought Roy released his lieutenant and whirled around, one hand slipping into his pocket as another hand rose in the air as he did so, and as he slipped the cloth over his fingers he finally heard the sweet release of a snap.

Hanley screamed and crumbled into a steaming pile on the floor. Roy wasn't sure how much strength he'd used, whether the man was dead or alive. He prayed for both.

There was a sharp inhale behind him, and he pivoted back to face her, feeling the horror in his eyes grow.

Her arm was raised halfway, bent at the elbow, reaching for nothing, but her eyes were looking past Roy, at nothing in particular. She was beginning to shake, her chest was hitching, and Roy knew she was, with all her strength and power, fighting to find control that was rapidly slipping away from her.

She swallowed hard and blinked several times.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Look at me! Look at me, what was it? What did he give you?"

He knew she didn't know, and in her fight she could not respond. He practically threw himself to the ground to find the discarded thing, and saw the glint of its body beneath the counter. He wrapped his hand around the splintered glass and turned it around to read the label as he stood from his position.

There was no label, but rather simply a white piece of paper taped to it with the word " _experimental"_ written in pen.

His eyes rose numbly to the back counter which Hanley had lunged for the needle from, and his sights landed on the top of the greenish tile.

There was one plastic tub with several identical syringes within. Beside it were several other tubs, each filled with an assortment of items, of weapons, from toppered cylinders to needles to pills.

Time was no longer relative. From the moment the needle found its way into her arm, to when he turned to light the bastard up, and now when he felt a small amount of pressure on his tricep and looked back at her paling face, time seemed to belong to a camera that held the ability to shoot a million frames per second.

It seemed like a terrible show that had lasted an hour, but it had all happened in less than 60 seconds, and her hand fell from his arm. Her head swayed and she stumbled a step.

"Maybe I-" Her words were strung together like thickly worn twine. "Maybe a doctor, sir-"

His head was swimming. How could she have the mind, the indoctrinated discipline, to end that sentence with his title?

"Hawkeye, we're gonna get you a doctor, alright? But you need to stay alert, _hey!"_

Her eyes had become unfocused, but their color came back as he bit off the word and grasped his hands beneath her elbows. He gave her a small shake and she seemed to wake even further.

"Come on, we're going, Hawkeye-"

He made a move to grasp her arm to lead her forwards, but she resisted with an alarming amount of strength for her condition.

"No," she rasped. "No not yet."

"What?!" he yelled with disbelief. "We're going, _now_ , and I swear to God-!"

" _Sir, please,"_ she fell out of his grasp, back against the counter, and placed a hand over her chest. "Look for something, _anything_ , before he finds...finds a way to…"

"Remember that you need a doctor?!" he asked her. " _Remember that?!"_

"Remember how his actions for the past several years have dug the graves of uncountable innocent civilians."

The sentence pushed out of her in one breath, and it was the steadiest thing she'd managed to say. It slapped him across the face, stunning him, and his lips parted in absolute reprieve.

Her hand pushed further into her chest and she bent into it, forcing loud and thin breaths into her lungs. She was suffering, she was possibly dying, and he knew she was right, god _dammit! Dammit! Dammit!_

The word was repeating in his brain, screaming in his brain. Dammit. Dammit.

 _Find evidence before Kingston finds a way to eradicate it_.

Roy let out an anguished cry before tearing himself away from her, throwing open drawers and tearing apart cabinets, ripping into slain slack pockets and turning the place upside down as rapidly as he could. He kept glancing back at her, but each time he did only served his desire to stop searching and go to her.

He searched, and he found absolutely nothing.

" _FUCK!_ " he yelled as he slammed a cabinet shut, the door bouncing severely off its post to break and crash to the floor. He pushed an anxiety-riddled hand through his hair as he pivoted around, his eyes searching manically for a corner of the room he didn't search.

" _There's nothing here! NOTHING, DAMMIT!"_

There was not one single file, not one label, that bore the sin of the underground organization they had just unearthed. Or, specifically, and more desirably, Kingston himself.

There was nothing in here that couldn't have been burned what seemed to be hours ago, back when he and this woman were outside that door formulating a plan.

 _Don't use alchemy, you could accidentally destroy evidence, don't use alchemy, we'll figure it out, we'll be fine, don't use alchemy-_

Everything that had just happened, had happened for nothing. There was nothing here. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

" _NOTHING!_ " His voice was a long, drawn out scream of absolute fury. It bounced off the corners and hung in the air.

"Check…" It was only a forced mutter. "Check...the other room… _ugh_." Her body had progressively leaned further back against the counter, and she was now rotated so the weight of her body leaned into an elbow. Her other arm was still glued against her chest. He could see the quiver of her limbs.

"What other room, Lieutenant?" he bit out forcefully. "We're leaving, we don't have time, I'm sorry-" Sorry that he found nothing, or that he was denying her request, or that she was deteriorating, he wasn't sure which he was specifying towards because he was sorry for it all. "I'm sorry, we're leaving."

"We...made...it...too...far…"

He had a feeling that she was losing strength to continue making her case, yet still she spoke.

"We're in...too deep...to give...up…" The breathing in her lungs rattled and hitched and even more, she fell into the counter.

" _Lieutenant, please! A doctor!"_

Her neck glistened with sweat and her eyes clenched shut, and Roy suspected she was losing her battle.

"We can't," she whispered.

Time, for both her health and the discovery of evidence, was so, so short, yet he couldn't stop himself from taking several long moments to stare at her silently, mouth parted in stature, until his body twisted around like a whip and a fist launched into a cabinet door. His bones vibrated with the impact.

She wanted him to check the room they'd first heard those two men, and he wanted them to _fucking leave_.

Each second that he spent deliberating was a second wasted, on both his side and hers.

He released the counter and leaned back to stand up straight and stare at her. He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, then he bridged the gap between them with one long stride and stepped beside her, reaching over her leaning arm to grasp her wrist and pull it around his shoulders as his other arm bent to lift her knees. She couldn't physically resist, and didn't even do so vocally, and it was that which worried him.

Instead, she just fell limply against him as though relieved from her strain. Her head rested against his shoulder and he felt her wince at some invisible pain he couldn't see.

"If you can't stay awake, you're walking."

He dared a glance down at her, and saw her eyebrows barely raise in contest.

"You're bleeding..." she murmured. Her hand raised a few inches towards his face, but she let it fall back onto her stomach. He didn't know if it was because she didn't have the energy to finish it's ascent or if it was because she had had a change of mind.

The hallway was shocking. It was quiet, it was empty, and it was exactly as they had left it. It was as though nothing had happened, that several men didn't lay dead or unconscious in that strangely terrible lab, and a few innocent papers on the walls fluttered as Roy rushed past them.

 _Get there, search, get out._

These were the words repeating in Roy's head like a mantra as he flew down the hallway and turned the corner. The doors came in and out of view, like posters in a theater, until he found the one he needed and he pushed he and Hawkeye against it. His busy hand wrapped around the handle and twisted it open.

It was dark. He stepped inside and shoved his elbow against the side of the wall where a switch ought to have been, and a few lazy lights buzzed alive. It was a small room, with hardly anything in it besides several boxes of varying sizes and a broken desk in the corner.

"Quickly," she said. "You c-can put me down…"

He looked down at her, but her head was turned and she was surveying the room weakly. He knew there was no time to argue so gently, he lowered himself so her feet touched the ground and he released her knees. She seemed to stand on her own, but his free hand mirrored his other as he leaned her against the wall and held firmly onto her shoulders, staring into her eyes as a question.

"Honestly," she whispered. "I'm fine...quickly, Colonel…"

He growled in his throat, but released her anyway and turned around rapidly to begin searching the boxes. As he was turning, he thought he may have seen her double into herself, but he had to let her fall if she was going to fall; time allowed nothing else.

But he didn't hear the thump of her hitting the ground, so he ripped open the first box. It was large and promising, but as he tore open the corners, he saw nothing to be in it. Pressing his lips tight together, he yanked the next box towards him and flung open the top.

There was a stack of yellow folders. He felt himself hope and his fingers brushed against the edges as he flipped through them. They were only archived files of obsolete offices in other parts of the building, and his breath stopped in a crash of disappointment. Knowing he was on the brink of listening to the stream of despair screaming in his head, he shoved them back in the box and moved on.

But each box either contained many old or unnecessary files belonging to other companies that leased space in Kingston's complex, or there was nothing inside them at all. They were mundane, they were pointless, they were everything Roy didn't need to see.

Emotion seemed to fill every space of his body so that he was overfilled with a distress he didn't know what to do with. He looked up and saw the broken desk, the fourth leg weak and crumbling, and then he looked back at Hawkeye.

She was still leaned against the wall, but she looked very different. She was stiff, and her head was cast down so he could only see the top of her hair. An arm was wrapped around her stomach and a hand was braced up against the wall. She was barely being held up by the wooden doorframe. He turned all the way around and stood, taking an obligatory step toward her because there was nothing here for them-

Then he froze. And he felt the hate for himself grow, for his muscles couldn't bring him to her because goddammit, goddammit, that hellbidden desk was basking in the corner untouched and _dammit,_ he _had_ to check it, _dammit!_

He fumed as he strode quickly towards it. It was turned round so it's body faced the wall. He slipped both hands between the wall and the wood and he threw it against the wall perpendicular so it's front was open to him, but the movement cracked the fourth leg and it jerked down and crashed to the floor. Unbefronted, Roy ripped out the single drawer without a care, but instead of feeling the weight of the drawer lift in his hands he felt the socket of his shoulder twist as he yanked hard against a locked box.

Sore, Roy stared down at it. Something bubbled inside him, something he didn't dare entertain, and he lifted his hand, _snapping_ and melting the locking mechanism in the center of the wood, and he pulled against the handle and it freely followed his movements. His head bent and he looked inside.

There was a single, fat binder. Roy flipped it open and his heart, abused and sunken, lifted with each passing sentence. Breath exhaled out of his mouth and his body sagged in astonishment. He barely allowed himself to read more than a paragraph before ripping out the pages, folding them, and shoving them into the waistband of his pants. He rose to his full height with a new energy, still shell shocked from the discovery, and he turned.

Her skin was almost translucent and his lifted heart shattered. Thin blue veins lined her arms.

"Lieutenant…" he said with uncertainty as he stepped over a box and walked towards her. Her chin, touching her chest, lifted and her head fell back against the wall as she met his gaze. Her face, too, was webbed with the blue lines and he felt afraid of her. Her mouth was closed and her features were almost entirely relaxed, almost too relaxed, and she in no way seemed natural. She barely looked like she was breathing.

"Hey, listen to me," he started in an attempt to keep her attention as well as to quell his own trepidation. "I found something, OK? So you need to stay awake and we can talk about it."

Her eyes drifted to the side of his head, beyond his ear, and she rolled half an inch forward then fell back against the wall. She somehow became even whiter and Roy felt everything good inside him disappear, and his blood was replaced with pure dread. The way she looked, how she was standing...

"Hawkeye, you need to stay focused. Do you hear me? _Do you hear me?"_ He took another step forward. He changed the tone of his voice _._ "You keep your eyes on me and you acknowledge me, Lieutenant!"

It was quite obvious that she was not hearing him, or could at least not respond to him, because the pigmentation of her skin turned to that of what a corpse ought to have looked like, and then she slid a dagger into the center of Roy's heart as she began to twitch and her eyes rolled backwards into her head. He glanced down and saw the muscles in her hand clench and spasm, and as if gaining momentum, her entire body began to jerk and she started to fall to the ground.

"No! No!" The words ripped out of him.

Never had he experienced such complete desperation and terror. He caught her and lowered her to the carpet, and felt her hand grasp his arm. Her seizes were mild and weak, distilled enough that he wondered if she had grabbed him deliberately, and after only a few terribly long moments she stopped and fell completely limp in his arms. Roy's throat closed and he felt panic overcome him.

"Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare!" He pushed two fingers into her clammy neck, and the eight seconds it took for him to feel a pulse was the longest period of time he had ever lived.

Terror in the form of tears pricked his eyes but didn't fall as he scooped her up into his arms, and he ran, he ran with lead filled legs, out of that door and out of that building.

The snow had stopped. The night was pitch black, and the glow of the snow covered ground hid away the glisten of the stars. Roy's feet dashed past it all as he trekked to the back door of his car. He released her knees and held her tight against him as his free hand fumbled in a fluster around his pocket for his keys. Her head hung backwards against the upper part of his arm. The keys jingled in a tease before he finally grasped them and pushed them into the lock of his car, turning and twisting and ripping the door open.

"Don't, I swear to God, Hawkeye, don't," he said shakily as he laid her in the backseat. "We're not finished yet."

The door slammed shut, the other one ripped open, and it too slammed shut before Roy Mustang's tires skid repeatedly against the snow and the car thrust forward and he swerved out of sight.

* * *

His dress shoes had been shined, earlier that day. He'd taken notice to place the polish, a small tin can with a bent lid, on the windowsill that morning so it might catch the sun's warmth. It'd lost its rigidity and was easy to catch on the tip of the white cloth wrapped around his finger. He'd cut up an old t-shirt years back to use for such a thing, and it was raggedy and colored from use. He had lined the black leather with the shine so that it sat as a generous coating, slick and matte. The dark shine melted perfectly into the thin crevices of the leather as he'd put a small flame to hover a few inches away. For thirty minutes, he had rubbed that cloth in repetitive motions, a circle and a line, a circle and a line, until each shoe practically mirrored his reflection and he felt they were appropriate to don at such an occasion of a military ball.

Now, they crunched loudly into the snow, one foot quick after the other, stepping into patches of the white powder that had mixed with the mud beneath. Flecks of brown slush splattered his slacks. He was absolutely freezing cold, the center of his body felt to be made of an avalanche, and he couldn't be sure if it was because of the night breeze or the body pressed up against his chest.

His car had skid to a halt in the road outside the hospital, yet the run to its doors still seemed so balkingly prolonged. One of her bare feet kept brushing across his hip as he dashed along the washed out walkway, her figure jostling with every panicked step.

What's wrong with her, one of them asked. Something happened, listen to me, he said. The nurse's desk had a counter and she'd flown up from her chair when he'd burst through the doors. His voice pushed out of him like a vehicle empty of fuel. Something happened, I don't know what it was, just please do something -

Sir, what happened.

It was a syringe. It was a syringe. He felt so out of breath. A needle, in her arm. Do something.

What was in the syringe?

 _I don't know, dammit! I don't know what it was but she's barely fucking breathing so can you just open the goddamn back doors and find us a fucking doctor?!_

It was like some kind of morbid painting that a psychiatric patient had penned. The white walls, the white tile, the open blinds that showcased the black sky, the bed that was so pale blue it may as well have been white and the thin tissue paper that crinkled like ribbon beneath the white figure clad in a deep sea blue dress made of water and chiffon.

They didn't make him leave. Why would they? He was entirely silent. Back up against the wall, his view of scrubbed people taking her blood and running away with it and checking her scans on pieces of paper printing out of machines hooked up to her as if they could actually do anything, and he felt misery. He'd forgotten about the folded up papers pressed against his waistline and in that moment they did not exist.

"Listen very carefully," he had said into the phone before stepping into that room. "Take whoever you can get ahold of, find out who is dead and who is alive, and detain the ones who are breathing. Site my orders to anyone who questions you."

"What if they moved the bodies? Cleaned up house?" asked Havoc lowly.

"They won't have," Roy answered. "It's too public for him to have done anything. He would have needed to act identically alarmed about the commotion, like everyone else in the ballroom."

"Why not you?"

"Why not me, what?"

"Why can't you tie this up with me? What happened?"

"I'll call you from this number later to check up. Get there quickly."

He'd hung up and turned the corner into the room that looked like a painting he had never wanted to admire.

* * *

"If you say that goddamn word to me one more time, I will lose it."

"Colonel Mustang, certainly you must understand. This is a very unique case, and you said yourself that not even the bottle itself was labeled. What else are we to do?"

"You couldn't find _any_ indicator in the blood tests? _Anything at all_ that could even _hint_ at what it was?"

"Sir, as I told you, every test was inconclusive-"

" _Well conclude something, Doctor, because right now it seems like this entire hospital staff is incompetent of doing a one damn efficient thing!"_

"We are monitoring, Colonel," he continued gently. He put a hand on the side of Roy's shoulder. "And that is all we can do. I know that's not what you want to hear, and trust me, it's not what I want to be saying. But it is the truth. Now, please, can I clean that gash in your cheek, check your bleeding head for a concussion, and splint your wrist?"

They wanted to change her, put her into a hospital gown, but Roy wouldn't let them. He said yes, you may tend to me now since you so apparently need something to do with your time, but don't touch her.

The dress wasn't constricting, anyway. They'd tired of arguing with him and they allowed him this small victory. He was, after all, the Flame Alchemist, and he would find a battle in everything.

And the dress covered her back. Removing it would do the opposite. He wouldn't allow it.

"You don't need a blanket or anything?"

"No."

"I know things look bleak right now, Colonel, and...well, she seems like a fighter…" The man sighed as he stumbled for the right words. "I know we can't supply you with anything concrete, and perhaps things are something of a muddle right now, but-"

"Then stop muddling them, Doctor, and just tell me what you've been thinking this entire time."

Roy looked up from his chair and stared at the man in the doorway. The light had just recently been flicked off, and the only gleam came from the open sliver. The doctor, taken aback, silenced. Roy did not.

"You're a medical man. I'm a military man. I think we can have this conversation without you treating me like a child."

The man's hand was still frozen on the doorknob, but it dropped as he sighed deeply and looked away for a moment. When he made eye contact again, his muscles had visibly sagged. He seemed truly regretful.

"More than likely," he finally said sorrowfully. "She will die."

After another moment of staring, Roy gave him a tight nod and turned away. He crossed his arms. He heard the door click shut after the doctor recognized the dismissal.

Nausea. That was what he could process. Just the feeling of heavy, solid nausea that persisted on the walls of his body. He raised a hand and caged his forehead, allowing his eyes to close and his body to bend into itself. Should she die, a part of him would with her.

 _You're in love with her_.

I know.

Wasn't love supposed to be beautiful? Wasn't it supposed to feel light and heavy, and also strange and familiar? Didn't the stories make it out to be some kind of serum that brought every second into a different world? Where the colors swelled with vibrancy and the air was like mountain water, and you lived a day unlike anyone else you walked past? Romance was a chime that drifted on a frequency only you could hear, and it was a song that surpassed ache, fatigue, and loss and brought with it only radiance.

This wasn't like that. This was mauling and destructive. This was a persecution on his being and the air that entered and left his lungs was never fucking enough. Given the choice, he would rather have had his soul stripped from him like a beast than sit there and watch her die. Given the choice, he would take her place, he would run to Death, and what did that mean? What was the depth in understanding an actual want for Death, when a person lived because of the opposite? Human beings lived, _lived_ , on fear of dying; what could it do to a man to wish for it for the exchange of another? To long to die was against instinct.

It was torture. Waiting. Waiting. Feeling the passage of time like molasses in a tube.

Either she will die, or she will not. _More than likely, she will die._

He had somehow made his way from being chaired up against the wall by the door, to being chaired up beside her. She wasn't lying linear like a board, as they showed in those films. Feet straight out and head gentle against a pillow, nose towards the ceiling. That would have been too simple, he supposed.

Her head was lying frailly to the side and her lips were slightly parted in deep unconsciousness. An arm was bent and a palm was faced upwards. Her fingers curled naturally into her hand. He could see the fresh bruise in the crook of her elbow, deep purple and a terrible red, and her hair was oiled from the dried sweat and fallen snow. Never in the entirely of his life, not even in Ishval, did he see a person so pale and pallid and grim and still be alive.

The waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

They couldn't do anything for her. They'd have to ride out the toxin. That's all. That was it.

If you're going to die, please, just do it and release me from this prison. Die and take that piece of me with you, because right now it's hacking itself off with the blunt end of a wrench instead of a knife and I can't take the agony any longer.

He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers across her skin, his thumb feathering over the dreadful bruise. His eyes blinked tiredly as he did so, staring at the abrasion blankly. This shouldn't have happened. He couldn't stop thinking it, but it was true. They understood the wake of danger, yes of course they did, but this, this still shouldn't have happened. His gaze blinked back up to her comatose face,

And two exhausted mahogany eyes looked back at him.

He practically jumped backwards at the contact, his eyes flying wide open and his mouth opening in shock.

"Lieutenant…!" he breathed.

She blinked a few times and responded in a moan, too weak for words. She moved her head half an inch to the side. He leaned close to her and put his palm against the side of her head.

"You're gonna walk out of here, Hawkeye."

She blinked groggily and made the smallest movement with her head, but he knew it was a nod and he felt light tear open in the darkness of his gut. He sighed in relief and hung his head, washed over in the most intense form of steadiness and solace. Her sentience convinced him of their survival.

She was still there and that meant he was too.

* * *

"Colonel?"

He looked up from his desk, his chin in his hand, to see her standing a few feet in front of him. He released his head and straightened his back. His eyebrows drew close together.

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

She shrugged. She was in black slacks and a slightly large grey sweater.

"And where's your coat?" he asked as he sat up further. "Did you walk here?"

It was a Saturday, a cold Saturday, in fact, and no one else was in the room but the two of them. The two windows behind the Colonel's desk were frosted over. It had just turned the second of November, almost seven days since the night of the military ball. The amount of work he had to do in effect of the event was almost overwhelming.

"I want to talk about what you found that night," she said, ignoring his question. His eyes widened and he felt himself look away.

"I told you we could talk about it when you returned to duty."

"I can't rest properly until I know, sir."

He blinked back up to her; her hands were clasped behind her back, her feet together, as if she could have been in uniform, and she looked back at him steadily. The color of her skin had yet to fully return and he could see bags of exhaustion beneath her eyes. He shook his head.

"It was incredibly stupid of you to walk here alone, Hawkeye."

"I'm feeling much more stable, sir. Please don't change the subject."

He sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair, throwing down the pen that was in his hand. He gestured forward.

"Well pull up a chair and sit down, for God's sake."

She did, and still she stared. A prod, a patience, but a demand in her eyes.

"What have you been keeping from me?"

The question should have been accusing, but it wasn't. He sighed deeply again and pushed his papers to the side of his desk, wanting to do something with his hands. He fiddled with the edges of the sheets.

"I told you," he began as his thumb ran down the small pile, "we shut down the operation and a lot of people are going to prison for it. The higher ups think we're godsends. Isn't that enough for you?"

"Colonel…"

"What?" He finally looked at her.

A few beats of hesitance. The resignation in her voice broke him.

"We didn't get him, did we?"

He was silent. Their eyes were locked. After some time, he realized why it was so difficult to share eye contact with her and his eyes flicked away to the side as he finally brought himself to say it.

"No."

Then she was silent too, and the room suddenly felt very big. He felt his right hand ball up into a fist as he glanced up at her sadly.

She was looking at the hands in her lap and she was nodding, a frail attempt to accept what she'd dreaded.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant-"

"There's nothing we could have done more, sir." Her thumb brushed over her other fingers mindlessly. "He was very careful, wasn't he?"

"Yeah," said Roy softly. "He was. His name wasn't present, not once, not even an alias. All those documents I found in the desk…" He pushed air out his nostrils as he came to terms with telling her the truth. "They were made out as if Hanley was in charge. Probably stroked the poor bastard's ego enough that he didn't realize what Kingston was doing. He's been a step ahead of us this whole time."

"He's not going to take any risks, now, either," she said. She looked up from her hands and gave him a sad smile. "He'll never be indicted, not ever. He'll never even be a suspect. That was our one chance, Colonel. And we missed it."

"In the eyes of the board," Roy added quietly, "he was a victim." He rubbed his fingers across his forehead and closed his eyes for a brief moment. "That an underground ring of illegal activity was headquartered in his complex isn't suspicious to them, it's just a tragedy." He exhaled forcefully, his chest tight and his anger, before held by a curtain, began to peek again. "He's being given a grant by the Fuhrer's office to cover the damages of his building and the East City senator is holding a dinner in his honor."

Hawkeye's head dropped and her shoulders fell. She didn't speak for a long moment.

He had been their target all along. He was spreading the seed of corruption in the ranks, he was blackening the tarp that covered the land, killing civilians and feeding greed and burying righteousness and bringing him down was one thing, just one doable thing that they could have done to help Amestris. And they failed.

"Dammit..." she finally said to her knees.

"I know...I...didn't want to tell you yet…"

"He should be shot for what he's done."

"Listen to me, Hawkeye. We didn't get him, I know. We should have, and we didn't. But what else could we have done? You said it yourself; the answer is nothing. He's a son of a bitch, and he should rot, but we failed because we forgot to recognize one thing and it's that he's smart. He's _damn_ smart. He covered his tracks like a fucking psychopath and he is never, ever gonna slip up again. For the rest of his career, he's going to be promoted, he's going to be revered, he's gonna make money and a lot of it...but he's going to keep his head down.

But you and I...we know. And he knows that we know. So we couldn't expose his shit to the public and to the military, but we stopped him from digging any more graves and I'll be damned if he ever digs another one again, because he knows that the second he picks up a shovel we're gonna be down his goddamn throat. So we threw the ball, and it didn't score any points, but it slammed into the head of one of the lead players and right now...right now, I'm alright with that."

A corner of her mouth lifted in half of a sad smile. She cocked her head a few degrees to the side as she met his eyeline.

"I don't know if I am."

They were silent again.

He knew she wouldn't be.

"And Hanley?" she asked. Roy didn't break eye contact.

"He could face the Bullet Catcher, but he'll probably just end up serving a life sentence."

She nodded again.

"Fine by me."

"Well, I'd personally rather see him shot. By you, preferably," he added.

A true smile spread across her face.

"I might prefer that as well, but, I'm also content with never seeing his face again."

"So…" He looked her over. " _Are_ you feeling better? Or was that just a lie?"

"It wasn't a lie. I am feeling better."

"You're looking thin."

"How can you tell? I'm in a sweater."

"I can tell."

She fell quiet, until finally she sighed and stood from her chair.

"Well I'm sorry to have interrupted your work. I know it's a rare thing for you to be so focused on it, anyway."

"Hawkeye, seriously?"

"So I think I'll head on home now...thank you for telling me what I wanted to know."

"Lieutenant-"

"Have a good evening, Colonel, I'll see you-"

He threw his coat at her and she caught it suddenly, her mouth shutting in alarm. She looked at him.

"Put the damn coat on. I'll drive you."

"Oh...Colonel, no, I just said not two seconds ago that it was rare for you to work like this and by you leaving because of my presence just means that-"

"I was going to leave anyway, Hawkeye. I finished. I was just looking it over before you came in. Shall we?"

She sighed in resignation and nodded.

"Alright."

She held his coat out in front of her, expecting him to take it, but he just walked past her and tossed the keys into the air to catch them again.

"Wear the coat. How do you feel about an early dinner? I know a place that's really great at fattening up lieutenants."

She laughed quietly.

"Do you know a place that's any good at bringing down corrupt generals?"

"Generals? No. No, not specifically. But maybe an entire government. Let's talk about it over candlelight."

"Colonel you really think too much of yourself."

"Maybe."

"Maybe."

"What did I say about the coat? Put it on."

"It's not that cold, sir,-"

"Put the damn coat on, Hawkeye."


End file.
